


Enjoy Some Cake

by MacPye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPye/pseuds/MacPye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft doesn't actually like cake. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjoy Some Cake

“Happy birthday,” Greg said, kissing the tip of Mycroft’s nose. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smiled a little, then momentarily allowed his nostrils to flare when he saw what Greg had been slaving over in the kitchen.

It was a tray of gorgeous cupcakes, frosted in white and brown, with tiny silver balls sprinkled on top. “You really shouldn’t have,” Mycroft managed, trying his hardest to sound as normal, walking back out of the kitchen.

Greg cocked his head to the side. “Hey, what is it?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing,” said Mycroft, carefully lowering himself onto one of Greg’s barstools. Greg stood facing him across the kitchen’s little bar, which mostly served as a breakfast table. “I’m just a little tired.”

Greg frowned. “Hmm, no, sorry, not buying it.”

Mycroft rubbed his left temple, then smiled properly. “You, Gregory Lestrade, are beginning to read me rather well. I must say, I’m not certain if that’s not altogether too dangerous.”

Greg grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment, instead of a threat. Now, tell me.”

Mycroft sighed gravely. “I don’t like cake.”

Greg blinked a moment, then threw back his head and laughed.

“What do you find so hilarious?” Mycroft asked, a little testily.

“God, just the way you said it!” gasped Greg, clutching at his side. “It’s as if you were telling me you’re having my parents executed!”

Mycroft blinked once, then threw back his head, too.

“See?” said Greg. “So, why don’t you?”

“Like it? Hmm, I just don’t like the texture of it in my mouth, and any kind of icing makes me nauseous before I’ve finished one mouthful. And people keep telling me I’ve not tried the right kind of cake, or the best kind of icing, but, trust me, that only makes matters worse.” Mycroft looked up at Greg from under his eyelashes, his glance indicating the tray of cupcakes. “I’m sorry.”

Greg bit down another bout of laughter.  “Don’t be, really, Mycroft. I hadn’t even considered that possibility.”

Mycroft smiled crookedly. “But you went through all this trouble…” he gestured at the practically perfect cupcakes.

Greg reached out for Mycroft’s arm across the bar, squeezing it just above the elbow. “It’s fine, honestly, it’s not as if it was the only gift I have for you.”

Mycroft’s shoulders shifted a little, releasing a hint of tension Greg had been unaware of. He squeezed Mycroft’s arm again, let go of it and reached under the bar. He pulled out a wrapped gift.

Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of it. It was a rectangular box, and Greg had obviously wrapped it himself. He accepted it, glanced at Greg’s restrained nervously excited face, received a nod, and carefully slipped a finger under a fold to release the sticky tape.

The box had a luxurious quality about it, and when Mycroft tilted it slightly, his breath caught in surprise as he saw a relief stamp of one of his favourite tailors in its lid. He gingerly lifted the lid, and bit his lower lip.

Greg leaned forward as Mycroft pulled the folds of the gorgeous dark, blue-grey cashmere scarf from the box. He let it slide through his hands, then twisted it round his neck.

Greg’s mouth hung open in a kind of breathless smile. “I was right.”

“Right?” echoed Mycroft softly.

“This colour does make your eyes seem more intense.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“I’d noticed you didn’t yet have a scarf to match your new coat yet, so…” Greg waved between the box and the scarf.

“Thank you,” repeated Mycroft.

Greg flushed in some pleasure, grinned and picked up one of the cupcakes. He inspected it up close for a second, then allowed his tongue to lave across the frosting in a long sweep, his eyes closing halfway through. “Hmm,” he hummed in approval.

Mycroft stared fixedly as Greg polished off the cupcake in a combination of licks, nibbles and bites, flashes of tongue and teeth, and ferocious concentration to the exclusion of all else. When Greg finally crumpled the paper cup in his right hand, licking the last remaining crumbs off his lips with a deliberate sweep of his tongue, Mycroft unwound the scarf from his neck, small spots of colour apparent in his cheeks.

“Eat another one,” he said, his voice low.

Greg threw the crumpled cup over his shoulder. It tumbled into the sink. “Hmm, no,” he said, and from the colour of his voice, Mycroft instantly knew the scene had been a set-up. Inwardly, he applauded Greg’s adaptability and creativity. Outwardly, he knew the crotch of his trousers to be too obviously too tight for comfort.

Greg walked round the bar, and Mycroft swivelled on the stool to follow him. It was clear that Greg’s predicament was much the same, and they both groaned as Greg slid Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders and locked their lips together. With Mycroft on the stool, they were of a height, and their hips snapped together as Mycroft spread his knees and pulled Greg in closer.

“See,” Greg said, between kissing and nipping at Mycroft’s lips, “there are other ways to enjoy cake.”


End file.
